


Big Circles/Small Worlds

by beggar_always



Category: Inception (2010), Leverage
Genre: Crossover, First Meetings, M/M, Military, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggar_always/pseuds/beggar_always
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Eliot meets Eames, two he sees Arthur, and once he runs into them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Circles/Small Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted a Leverage/Inception fic from pretty much the moment I left the theater. The ones I've found so far haven't quite been what I've been looking for, so I finally caved and wrote something myself. I'm working on a longer, plottier Leverage/Inception x-over...but who knows when that will actually get finished. This just spawned out of that.
> 
> Mostly set pre-canon for both the film and the series. Apologies for not including any actual smut.

He meets Arthur when they’re both still in the Army. Neither of them are exactly fresh-faced recruits, but they’re not quite hardened veterans yet, either. They still have their optimism, at least.

They’re both drawn in for a new special project no one can tell them much about. The Army wants to form a new black ops team with the best and the brightest and Eliot’s honestly a little surprised he fits the bill. He’s not surprised Arthur does, though. The kid’s all deadly focus and precision. Eliot learns a lot from him, during all those missions that they’re not allowed to talk about (even amongst themselves).

Half the team gets gunned down in a country the US government consistently denies ever having set foot in. He, Arthur, and DeWitt are the only three who make it out in enough pieces to still be useful. DeWitt joins another team, but he and Arthur are approached for something completely different and even more secretive.

When it comes down to it, Eliot’s never been very comfortable in his own head; he definitely doesn’t want other people messing around in his subconscious. After a month of torturous exercises, he convinces the Powers-That-Be that he’d be most effective working freelance. He’s reluctant to leave Arthur behind, but he knows the kid can take care of himself.

\---

Things get fucked up in Afghanistan. He’s not even supposed to be there, not technically, and definitely not according to International Law. His handler has failed to give him all the vital information he needs to stay alive and now Eliot’s lying on the floor of some dark and filthy prison, hoping they give up and kill him soon.

He’s fading in and out when things suddenly get very loud. Blinking into a new, unforgiving light, he wonders if he’s about to get his wish.

“Christ, Rhys; stop trying to blind the poor bastard,” a voice says from the darkness. Not an American voice - British of some kind, though Eliot can’t quite place the dialect with his ears ringing and his head spinning. The light moves away from his eyes as one dark figure becomes two, one half resolving itself into a man dressed in dark garb, visible as he crouches next to Eliot.

“Speak English?” he asks as he looks Eliot over.

“Yeah,” Eliot croaks, still trying to get his bearings. The man produces a canteen from somewhere on his person and helps Eliot manage a few gulps. A third man walks in, just barely visible in the shadows.

“Godman’s not here,” he announces. “We’re moving out.”

“What about him?” the man crouching near Eliot asks.

“He’s a merc, according to the guard. American. Not our problem.” Eliot closes his eyes and sinks a bit against the wall at his back. Of course it’s not their problem. None of them are even supposed to be here.

“He’s injured. We can’t just...”

“That’s an order, Eames. We’ll send along a message when we get a chance but we’ve got bigger issues at the moment. He got himself in this mess, let him get himself out.”

Eliot hears the other two men leave the room but when he opens his eyes, he sees the crouching man’s hesitated. Eliot tries to hand back the canteen, thinking it’s what the other man’s waiting on, but instead the soldier pushes it back at him.

“Keep it,” he says quietly. He slides a foot forward after a moment to unstrap a knife from his boot. “We took the guards out, but reinforcements are undoubtedly on their way. Southeast is your best bet. Surobi’s about twenty-four kilometers out.” Eliot quickly commits the information to memory as his hand closes over the butt of the knife.

“Thanks,” he manages to whisper as the other man stands. Eliot thinks he sees him nod in acknowledgement before he disappears into the shadows.

It’s only later Eliot finds out they were SAS. The “message” the officer had promised to send makes it to the US Embassy in Islamabad the same day Eliot is released from medical care, two and a half weeks later.

\---

Eliot tries to take a break from Afghanistan after that. He’s in Dubai, not exactly on vacation, but between jobs at least. He likes the bar he’s found, just a block from his hotel; even starting to think it might not be a bad idea to make himself a safe house somewhere in the city.

The bar’s pretty crowded, so he’s not been able to clock every other patron in the place like he’d generally prefer. He tenses when another body brushes against him to take the stool next to his. Before Eliot can subtlety scope the other guy out to see if he’s a potential danger, a slightly familiar voice orders a vodka on the rocks. Eliot’s head snaps up as he gapes at the man smiling next to him.

“Lovely to see you upright for a change,” the man says by way of greeting. He’s certainly not as dusty as he had been on the floor of Eliot’s cell, but there’s still something inherently scruffy about him. Eliot glances surreptitiously around the bar. “Relax,” the man says after the bartender’s handed him his drink. “I’m not on the job.” With a pointed glance at Eliot’s half-finished beer he adds, “I’m guessing neither are you.”

Eliot still feels the need to be cautious. There’s no reason for the British Armed Forces to be after him. Further, the last time he’d seen this man he’d more or less saved his life.

“Name’s Spencer,” Eliot says after making a hesitant decision. He holds out his hand for the other man who smiles and shakes it in a warm, firm grip.

“I know; name’s Eames.”

Eliot frowns at him, tense and suspicious again. “You know?”

Eames shrugs and sips at his drink. “When we finished our mission I asked around. Wanted to know if an American mercenary could survive in Afghanistan with nothing but a boot knife and a half-empty canteen.” Eliot smiles a bit at that.

“Guess the next drink’s on me, then,” Eliot says, signalling the bartender.

They spend an hour talking in the way two soldiers can: like they’re both total strangers and old friends. Their common ground is bloody - but it’s still theirs. It’s something Eliot’s missed since he started working solo; since he lost contact with Arthur and DeWitt didn’t come back from that first mission with his new team.

“I’ve still got that knife, you know,” Eliot says casually as Eames finishes his third drink. Eames looks over at him, eyebrow raised slightly in interest. “Figured it wasn’t mine to lose.” He slides off the barstool, pays the tab for both of them, and nods his head toward the door.

As soon as they’re locked in Eliot’s hotel room, Eames is on him, kissing him in that hard way Eliot can never get enough of. The sex feels urgent, desperate even, but it’s the best Eliot’s had in a long time...and not just because it’s the _only_ he’s had in a long time.

Eliot reaches for his duffle as he watches Eames get dressed across the room. When he holds out the knife, Eames glances at it before meeting Eliot’s gaze. “Keep it,” he says, sitting next to Eliot to lace up his boots. “I have a feeling that won’t be the last time you’ll need it.”

They share one last, quick kiss before Eames is out the door, mumbling something about “bloody rendezvous orders.” Eliot doesn’t ask. It’s not like he’s some blushing virgin who needs to beg his man to stay around for a cuddle. With the lives they lead, he doesn’t doubt they’ll run into each other again.

\---

Afghanistan had been the first of many close calls in the service of his country and, as his handlers had become increasingly reluctant to claim any responsibility for him, Eliot had decided if he was to be treated as nothing more than a mercenary, he might as well begin working for the highest bidder. It’s not really his fault the highest bidder is rarely the US government.

He finds himself in need of a forger when the last of his government-issued IDs gets burned. The best in the business has set up shop in Mombasa, he hears, so that’s where he heads.

When he spots the man at the bar in the casino, he can’t help but laugh. He sidles over to the empty barstool next to the forger and says, “Eames, man, we’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

\---

When Eliot sees Arthur for the first time in the years since he’d parted ways with the military, Arthur shoots him.

Eliot knows there’s no way it’s an accident - he’s seen the kid shoot too many times before not to know how deadly accurate he can be. So there’s no way it’s an accident, but it’s not altogether malicious injury, either.

Eliot’s brain is fuzzy from the booze he’d downed before digging the bullet out himself. He barely thinks to bring his own gun up when Arthur breaks into his hotel room, two hours after the shooting. There’s no way Arthur’s unarmed, but he’s not flashing anything in the open, at least. It’s the first time Eliot’s gotten a good look at him since he’d left Arthur behind to take up the freelance work. He supposes they’ve both had plenty to age them since then.

“You’re working for Moreau now?” Arthur demands, looking like he wants to shoot Eliot again.

Eliot snorts and drops his handgun so he can fumble around for the bottle of whisky at his elbow. “Don’t even act like you’ve not gone merc, too,” he growls. “I heard about that job you pulled in Monaco. And the one before that in Hong Kong. And don’t forget about...”

“Don’t change the subject on me, Spencer,” Arthur hisses. It’s so obvious he’s livid. “Damien _fuckin’_ Moreau!?”

“You know, Arthur, I’m starting to think you’re pissed about something...”

“He’s a sadist,” Arthur spits, taking an angry step forward. “Last I checked, you still had morals.”

“Get out,” Eliot growls. Arthur opens his mouth to argue, but Eliot quickly cuts him off. “I mean it. Get out of my fucking city. You put a bullet in my shoulder. Completely blew my op. You don’t get to stand there and lecture me. Not when I know all about the shit you’ve pulled. You don’t get to take the moral high ground.”

Arthur glares at him for a long moment and Eliot glares right back. They used to be allies, friends, freakin’ _teammates_. It feels unnatural that they’ve somehow become adversaries.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Arthur says quietly. He almost sounds genuinely concerned, that Southern drawl he always tried to conceal slipping through just slightly. “Knowing Moreau, you’ll be taking a lot of people out with you.” He gives Eliot one last, long look before he turns and storms out of the room.

The thing is, Eliot knows Arthur’s not wrong. This thing with Moreau is bound to end bloody. Eliot just knows it’ll get even bloodier if he doesn’t follow through.

\---

“Sophie, you minx,” a British voice drifts along the comms. “Working a con in my neighborhood and couldn’t be bothered to call?” Eliot is on the move before Nate gives the order, pushing his way through the crowded gallery to get to Sophie.

Eliot rounds the corner and freezes; he’d know that stance anywhere. “Arthur,” he growls. The other man reaches a hand under his suit jacket as he turns. When he spots Eliot, he only relaxes a fraction.

“Spencer,” he growls back.

“Sophie, love, I think we’d better catch up elsewhere before these dears begin catching up with one another,” the voice he’d heard over the earbud says in person. Eliot gapes at the second man.

“ _Eames_!?” he blurts out. He can feel Arthur looking at him in confusion, even as Eames looks amused as he glances between them.

“Uh...Eliot? Soph? You might want to relocate whatever it is you got going on,” Hardison says in his ear. “Security’s on the move; headed your way.”

They find an isolated storeroom in the basement. “What the hell is going on?” Arthur and Eliot demand simultaneously. Eliot watches Eames and Sophie share an amused look.

“Arthur, Eliot, darlings,” Eames begins. “Might I introduce my lovely second cousin, Sophie. You are still going by Sophie these days, aren’t you?”

“More or less,” Sophie agrees.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Eliot cuts in. “You don’t put up with anyone unless you’re working a job,” he directs toward Arthur in particular. Arthur and Eames look to each other.

“He does have a point, darling. You can be a bit prickly,” Eames says. Eliot watches in amazement as Arthur actually rolls his eyes.

“Eames is my...partner,” Arthur admits, sounding reluctant to say as much. “We’re actually between jobs at the moment.” For a moment, Eliot just assumes they’re business partners, until he finally notices the body language between the two men - the way Arthur’s standing just slightly in front of Eames; the way Eames has turned his body toward him.

“I have a flat nearby,” Eames offers in explanation. “Arthur here was going a bit stir-crazy, so we decided to crash the gallery opening.”

“You still have that godawful flat?” Sophie asks with a laugh.

Nate appears in the doorway and looks at the four people in the room, eyebrow raised. “You know, there’s still a job out there that we’re kind of in the middle of... Parker’s starting to take a disturbing interest in the cocktail forks.”

“They’re so tiny!” a gleeful voice says in Eliot’s ear about the same time Arthur blurts out, “You’re working with _Parker_!?”

Eames meets Eliot’s gaze and asks with a smirk, “Don’t you just love how small the world’s become?”

/end


End file.
